


Worthy of Poetry

by hibernate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: DA Remix Fest 2017, F/F, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 02:10:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11934135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: There's rarely much more than what one sees to people like the Seeker of Truth; an open book that one need only to glance at to know precisely what's between the pages. But then there's this, a thrilling juxtaposition: a body so thoroughly honed to the art of combat, to harsh conditions, to strain and pain — enjoying the luxury of a warm bath.





	Worthy of Poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [placentalmammal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lay and Wait on Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5694067) by [placentalmammal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal). 



Haven is precisely as Vivienne pictured it — which is to say, a drafty, smelly, decrepit collection of buildings that look like a strong gust might tear them down, and wouldn't they all be lucky if it did.

There is no cure for the cold, and despite making the fire burn hotter than what might strictly be healthy for the fireplace, feeding it with magic until she falls into a restless, jittery sleep, wrapped up in an absurd amount of blankets, Vivienne wakes in the morning to frost on the inside of the windows and a thin layer of ice over the water in her basin.

"Oh," the Herald of Andraste says in the afternoon, stopping abruptly next to her in the Chantry hall. "You're still here. I didn't think you'd stick around."

It takes more than the cold to scare Vivienne away.

Seeker Pentaghast is at the Herald's side, as is her wont, impatience clear in every line of her body and scowl firmly in place. Sister Nightingale, Ambassador Montilyet and the Commander await them at the heart of the chantry, and less than a day of lingering in the hall, listening to the Sisters' chatter, has taught Vivienne that Adaar is perpetually late.

Her gray-tinted skin is flawless and freckled, white hair intricately braided and kept close to her scalp, and their short conversation in a moonlit corridor at Bastien's estate was quite enough to demonstrate that the Herald has a vain streak the size of the Waking Sea. The sleek horns and deep blue eyes turn the heads of men and women alike. Even in Haven she carries a beautifully crafted bow slung over her shoulder, and her gloves are never off. An unwise choice, when she ought to brandish that which marks her for anyone who doubts to see.

"I am in no hurry," Vivienne tells her. Only fools rush in.

The Herald might not realize what she holds in the palm of her hand, but Vivienne knows where these winds blow, she can practically taste it in the air. The world is changing, and someone with sense must push it in the right direction.

 

*

 

At the end of her first week in Haven, Vivienne walks around the lake, familiarizing herself with the area. Elfroot is abundant even through the snow, and where the trees grow thicker, timid little leaves poke through the snow, signaling that a great quantity of cloudberries will no doubt sprout when the weather turns. Maker willing, this fledgling Inquisition will have relocated to somewhere more palatable by then.

Spooked by her presence, a couple of rams set off down the slope towards the frozen lake, and then, frightened by something new, turn abruptly up the hills. There's something on the ice; movement and a splash of color out of place against the whiteness. Aiming her steps towards the shore, Vivienne finds a figure rising from the water, hauling itself up from a big gap in the ice.

It's Seeker Pentaghast, and without her armor, it takes Vivienne a few moments to recognize her. The Hero of Orlais; the Right Hand of the Divine; the Seeker of Truth who all but formed the Inquisition single-handedly; a bit of a disappointment in person, perhaps.

Wrapping a length of cloth around herself, she jumps from one foot to the other in the cold snow, before quickly slipping into her boots. They come up to her knees, leaving her arms and a strip of skin above the boots bare and goosebumped, the resulting image being, quite frankly, _ridiculous_.

"Seeker Pentaghast," Vivienne says, "enjoying a… bath?"

"Madame de Fer," Cassandra replies at the sight of her, straightening her back. Impeccable manners, of course, even while naked. "I did not expect company."

For all that she is sturdy as a rock, the poor thing shakes like a leaf in the freezing cold, breath a cloud out of her mouth, and Vivienne resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Maker," she says with an exasperated sigh, "put on some clothes before you catch a chill."

Cassandra treats it like an order, quickly pulling on her tunic, and stepping out of her boots one at a time to pull on trousers. "There are no baths in Haven," she mutters, a bit on the defensive side.

"One makes do," Vivienne replies. "Clearly."

The look Cassandra levels at her as she finishes dressing is stern, her face hard as stone. "You must find Haven a challenge."

"Whatever makes you think that, my dear?"

"I accompanied the Herald to the Ghislain Estate. I would not describe it as humble."

The repeated assumption is beginning to grate. Orlais is not a humble place, and if one expects to be listened to, one must take care to appear anything but. Whatever the Herald or any of her companions think, Vivienne requires no coddling.

"And I have visited the Grand Cathedral," she says, perhaps a tad sharper than necessary, "where the Hands of the Divine reside when they are not otherwise occupied. I could quite easily say the same of you."

The hard planes of the Seeker's face softens, mouth tightening slightly. Guilt is a sweet shade on her. "If I have offended, I apologize."

Vivienne would drive that dagger in more deeply, but the earnestness in the Seeker's voice lessens the urge to do so. "If I required the luxuries of the Ghislain Estate or the Empress's Court," she says, "I would have remained there."

The nod she receives in response is precise, military. She is a Templar, in skill if not in name. 

Vivienne has spent a lifetime surrounded by men and women like Cassandra; friends and enemies, gentle creatures and bullies. Templars are naught but people shaped into tools, and like all people and all tools, they come in many shapes. A Seeker of Truth is not a Templar, precisely, but the difference is unimportant. Their skills are useful — _necessary_ — but making friends with one does not mean forgetting what purpose they were made for. Even naked and weaponless, it would take only a word, a gesture, a thought for Cassandra to strip all power from Vivienne's limbs.

One must never lower one's guard with such a dangerous person.

Of course, the trembling makes her seem rather less of a danger. "If your intention is to give yourself pneumonia, by all means do so," Vivienne says. "If not, I arranged for hot tea to be ready in the chantry for my return."

"That is unnecessary."

"Do hush, Seeker. Standing around makes my feet cold."

Vivienne makes sure to keep a brisk pace, as Cassandra trails behind. Through the woods, past the soldiers training outside the inner gates, past the Herald where she stands outside her cabin, leaning suggestively close to the girl in charge of the tavern — the Herald's hospitality is grand indeed, all the way to her bedchamber — past that little toad Seggrit, through a cluster of chantry Sisters, into the warmth of the chantry hall.

The tea is tolerable, if only because Vivienne made the effort to inform the chantry Sister — at length — how undrinkable her tea was the first few times they went through this process. It shouldn't surprise her that Fereldans can't make a decent cup of tea. After all, they do favor things like blood of bears and ale brewed in outhouses. 

"You must enjoy baths very much to endure this cold," Vivienne says.

Sister Julienne has left her one of the overly sugared pastries that the cook makes; sweet enough to make one's teeth ache and dripping with butter. They're hardly fit to feed Sister Nightingale's ravens. 

"I prefer them warmer than this," Cassandra replies. Putting her fingers around the hot cup, she breathes in the steam, mouth twitching ever so slightly as she scowls, eyes constantly darting to the pastry left next to Vivienne's books. 

Following her gaze, Vivienne tilts her head, considering. "I thought Seekers to be ascetics."

"Even Seekers are allowed weaknesses."

"Like a hot bath?"

"I do not require it, but if there is a choice between that and an icy lake, the decision is not difficult."

She mutters the words into her tea, and when Vivienne realizes what the statement means, she finds she must tamp down on the smirk tugging at her lips, pleased at her discovery. There's rarely much more than what one sees to people like the Seeker of Truth; an open book that one need only to glance at to know precisely what's between the pages. But then there's this, a thrilling juxtaposition: a body so thoroughly honed to the art of combat, to harsh conditions, to strain and pain — enjoying the luxury of a warm bath. It's positively poetic.

Her hair is still not dry, little icicles melting at the nape of her neck, and the braid that came loose during her bath lays over her shoulder, leaving a wet imprint on her tunic. A mark of her Nevarran heritage, along with her name and her accent.

Something to ponder, perhaps.

 

*

 

The fortress Skyhold is in such a state of disrepair that anyone would despair.

Vivienne chooses rooms for herself that are adequate for now, but with windows facing west, they're far too dark in the morning. A compromise: she claims for herself the little nook next to the library with a balcony facing the courtyard, leaving it bathed in light for most of the day. As an office of sorts it's quite sufficient, and a lovely space to entertain the occasional guest for tea to boot. Adaar makes a habit of abusing furniture not made for someone of her size, spreading out, tall and lanky, putting lumps in Vivienne's specially ordered pillows and leaving muddy footprints on her chaise longue.

"Don't slouch, dear," Vivienne says, looking up from her letter and making a little gesture with her hand. Adaar straightens her back, but keeps the miserable pout on her face.

"How could I not when I've suffered such a crushing defeat?" she mutters, putting her tea down and giving Vivienne a mournful look.

Few are those who are immune to the Inquisitor's charms. Commander Cullen seems to have settled into a habit of flushing pink all the way up to his eyebrows whenever they speak. The minstrel who frequents the tavern allegedly wrote a song about her wiles (it is not performed in polite company). Even Josephine, who is otherwise to be considered a sensible woman, has been known to get a certain glimmer in her eye when Adaar focuses the full force of her smile in her direction.

Vivienne returns to her letter. "A personal misfortune, I assume, " she says. "I'm sure you will find someone to comfort you."

"How about you?"

"Oh darling, don't be absurd."

"You haven't even asked what happened. Dorian at least asked before announcing he wasn't interested."

"I don't know how I shall possibly go on without knowing every minuscule detail."

"Sometimes, Vivienne, I doubt your commitment to my love life."

From the courtyard, the sound carries of weapons in a display of blunt force; the clang of swords and shields at work. The sound has become familiar, like the beating of a heart.

Vivienne gazes out through the open doors at a sky grown mottled gray. As if on cue, it starts to snow. Big, wet snowflakes that melt when they hit her balcony. Even to these cold mountains, spring will come, but for the time being she still wakes cold to the bone early in the morning, long before the sun manages to rise. Sometimes, when the morning is especially chilly, Vivienne waits until the sun is up and brings Cassandra a cup of tea in the courtyard.

A few, rare times, Vivienne has found her with her sword put away, quickly hiding her book when Vivienne approaches, guilt or embarrassment or both coloring her cheeks a few shades darker. In Val Royeaux, the Seeker furtively paid a ghastly sum of money in a bookshop for the owner to give her a knowing smirk and fetch a book from the back. Cassandra shoved it in her pack too quickly for the Inquisitor to notice, but Vivienne has sharper eyes. Poetry has never held any great appeal to her, but certain books make their rounds at Court, popularity proportional to the Chantry's discouragement. The authors of those particular volumes must surely thank the Maker for such a stroke of luck; nothing catches people's interest quicker than the promise of brazen, illicit things.

"You've not caught a fever, have you, dear?" Vivienne asked her once. "You look quite flushed."

The consternation on Cassandra's face was worth the trip down to the courtyard, for all that it left mud-stains on her robes all the way up to her knees. Vivienne would not speculate, but the armory must get dreadfully cold when the fires are put out.

On the Storm Coast, when Vivienne could not sleep at all with the sound of the rain belting against the tent and the sharp whistle of the wind in the trees, she looked over to where Cassandra slept, soundly on her back, face no less stern in sleep, as if she took to the task of sleeping with the same serious determination that she applied to everything else.

"Cassandra sleeps above the armory," she says now, to Adaar, looking at the wet snowflakes falling over the courtyard.

The Herald — Inquisitor now — shrugs. "She can sleep where she wants."

"And how do you suppose it will look to visiting dignitaries to learn that such an important figure — one of the very founding members of your Inquisition — sleeps where one might expect to find vagrants and rats?"

"Don't be silly, Vivienne, the vagrants sleep in the stables and the rats live in the basement and under Josephine's desk."

"It simply won't do, Inquisitor."

Confused, Adaar makes a face that makes her look like a scolded child. "What do you want me to do, kick her out of there?"

Vivienne sighs, giving a slight shake of her head. "Do not worry yourself, my dear. I shall simply mention it to Josephine, I'm sure she'll be ever so grateful."

"Grateful, you say?" Adaar visibly perks up, eyes regaining their playful spark. "Oh, Vivienne, you don't have to do that. This really is more my responsibility. Inquisitor business, you know."

"If you do get around to it," Vivienne says, casually dismissive, "one of the rooms on the south side might be suitable."

"Are you sure? Sister Julienne won't stop whining about how small and drafty they are."

"Yes, but the rooms have those strange little bathtubs that Dagna is so fond of. Surely that would be convenient to someone who spends so much time with her sword in all that mud and snow."

"Vivienne," Adaar says, a perplexed frown growing on her forehead, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were being _kind_."

"Perish the thought."

 

*

 

For those possessing a deft sense of timing, as Vivienne does, Cassandra can be persuaded to part with her duties and share an afternoon cup of tea. The weather is improving, the spring sun warm and inviting, and her balcony is sheltered from the wind.

Cassandra has taken to spending her time with the troops in the training yard below Skyhold, returning with mud up to her ears, but no trace of that remains on her now: sitting next to Vivienne on her chaise longue, she is scrubbed clean, hair still wet, still carrying the scent of her soap and a trace of cheap rose oil.

"Tell me, how do you feel about lilacs? I shall send for some proper bath oils from Val Royeaux in the morning. It's a shame to waste perfectly good hot water on that wretched thing you call soap."

"There is no need for that," Cassandra says, scowling into her tea, "I do not need these things."

"Of course you don't _need_ them. That's the whole point of it."

A pause, as Cassandra seems to choose her words with more care than usual. "Vivienne — there are more important things."

"I would not be here if I did not agree."

Vivienne takes a sip of her tea; still a touch too hot. 

There are many _more important things_ , but no matter how quick the mind, no momentum can be upheld indefinitely. The words burn behind her eyelids, the research on her desk, book after book after book, notes carefully refined… she will not spare it a glance or a thought until the early morning, when her mind as at its sharpest. She will not think of the precise print in the last letter she received, so unlike the usual bold, careless and on occasion practically unreadable scribbles. Never before has Bastien let someone else write his letters to her. Something very big and hollow swells in her throat, a dark emotion that will not be named, cannot be named lest it bury its claws into her.

"But," she adds, turning back to Cassandra, "what is the point of striving forward if one does not take the time to appreciate the present? It would serve you well to pamper yourself sometimes, darling. Self-sacrifice will win you no prize."

Several emotions flit across Cassandra's face. She is an easy read; an honest face that never bothers to hide behind any kind of mask. A luxury few can afford, to keep oneself so bare. Certainly there must have been a point in Vivienne's life when such a thing applied to her, but she can no longer recall it.

"Thank you," Cassandra says. "I do not mean to sound like an ungrateful brat."

"Nonsense, darling," Vivienne replies, allowing her voice to soften. "On the contrary, you are a force of nature. It's quite irresistible."

"I am not as self-sacrificing as you think." Cassandra's cheeks darken a touch; perhaps at the thought of poetry. "For one, I care entirely too much for hot baths."

What a delight she is, how sweetly her discomfort colors her cheeks, skin flushed against the scars and the hard angles of her face. What a striking sight it must be to see her eyes close as she soaks in her bath, surrendering to the embrace of the hot water. Worthy of poetry, indeed. The thought of it might bring a blush to someone less composed.

Vivienne's fingers twitch ever so slightly against the cup in her hands as she considers the possibilities.

Some paths ought not be walked, and some require the lightest step. What foot to stand on when the tide comes and goes, what position to choose, what angle to take. Did she not learn over and over during her first years in Orlais the pain of of slipping on ice, of misstepping while walking a tightrope? And life could never be anything but, for those who wish to make sure the world moves in the right direction. Even now, hidden away in the mountains, the cogs are turning.

But this is not Orlais, and Cassandra is an open book before her, ready to be read.

"That," Vivienne says, not bothering to hide her smile, "is as it should be."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the DA Remix fest 2017. The idea of Cass loving hot baths in the original story really tickled me, so I wanted to explore that a little bit. Hopefully this remained within the general area of a remix.


End file.
